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I’m not going to recap the world’s past six months of events. You were there. From the alleged bat-born virus wreaking havoc on humanity to cardboard cutouts of dogs in the stands of baseball fields, we’ve all gone batshit crazy.

To channel that feline who lives in the trees, leaving only his iconic grin like some bad psychedelic trip: “We’re all mad here. I’m mad; You’re mad,” the Cheshire Cat mews.

Fantz in Your Pants' kitchen counter selfie timer / Courtesy photo
Christy Fantz

I’ve definitely gone mad. And I got mad depressed. Not to mention, fluffy. I put back on the weight I lost last fall and I don’t care. I’m ordering a burrito for dinner and washing it down with boxed wine.

I stopped counting in May after nine weeks of stress diarrhea. Which was super timely, in an era of toilet paper hoarding.

I’ve been talking to my vegetation entirely too much.

Quarantine has been a real solid kick in the crotch. I turned 40-something in late July and that’s when I noticed my first-ever bout of depression’s physical pain.

Does your hair ever hurt? Sometimes my hair hurts. It’s hard to explain. My hair hurt. Then came the body aches. I was positive the bedeviled plague was injecting itself into my lymph nodes. All I wanted to do was sleep. Forever. I felt like I had been unplugged. I physically hurt everywhere, was a crying mess and had a hard time moving around. It was tough to put on a “Life is fabulous!” face for the 6-year-old kid.

My depression usually ebbs and flows with anxiety and emotion. Not this time. It’s bizarre how depression can deactivate a human. At least next time my hair hurts, I’ll know it’s the suppression of depression.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s had a rough go at 2020. But I have the floor here.

My sewer blew out in July. Not from stress diarrhea, but tree roots. My bathtub was filled with shit water. I was dry heaving almost as much as I did while watching Trump’s interview with Jonathan Swan.

I almost burned my house down when I realized how far in debt I was about to roll. Then there was homeschooling the kindergartner as a single mom with a full-time job (that had a 10% pay cut cherry on top).

Since March, I’ve eaten my feelings, drank my depression, smoked my stress and made my outdoor vegetation into my circle of dames at high tea.

While spot-watering those gals for the second time on a 96-degree day, they seemed irked that I was being water-frivolous.

“Tomorrow is going to be 100 degrees, assholes,” I said to them. “We must prepare for impending wilt. You’ll thank me later.”

I wonder if their hair ever hurts.

I’m starting to claw out of crazy. Now that the Daily is back in print on Fridays, that gives me a little tingle in my granny panties. Its temporary COVID-trashed-everything hiatus was sad. The Colorado Daily is a lovely creative outlet for me and it holds a dear 15-year-old cobweb-tinged spot in my heart.

Now that we’re back in business, let’s get irreverent. Let’s get silly. Let’s grin so hard that we look like that batshit crazy cat in the trees.

In masks, of course.

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